


Fool's Errand

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Angry Lavellan (Dragon Age), Autumn, Blackwall being a sound guy, Character Study, Dalish Elves, Dalish Issues, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Nicknames, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, alcohol mention, anti-chantry, violence mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: Siofra Lavellan is sick of being the Herald. She's sick of the Chantry.Blackwall is the only one in Haven who seems to notice.A one-shot based on some autumnal prompts, about a Herald who wants to be anything but the Herald and everyone's favourite gruff northern Warden, who drinks his own home-brewed respecting elves/women juice.
Relationships: Blackwall & Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Lavellan, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	Fool's Errand

**Author's Note:**

> Siofra is pronounced 'shee-fra'/'shee-fruh', but go with whatever's easiest for you to envision/imagine!

Creators, it’s cold.

Scattered leaves, brittle and curling at the edges, lay in cairns and drifts at the edges of Haven’s cobbled streets. Stomping her way down to the lakeside, Siofra kicks them up into flurries, annoyance writhing in her gut like a coiled knot of snakes. The leaves sing autumn’s fresh, crisp song as they crunch beneath her fur-lined boots, a song of promise. Soon, the nights will tighten their frosted embrace, naked branches will be dusted with flecks of snow, and the shemlen will panic, like they always do.

Where will this war be, by then? Where will _she_ be, by then?

In her heart, she hopes. Hopes that she’ll be home, following a river of white halla, the scarlet sails of aravels creaking in a soft breeze as Clan Lavellan trace the time-worn path to their wintering grounds. In her head, though, she knows that’s just a fool’s dream—like falling in love, or living without the shem hounding your every move.

Stupid, careless shem. Until the Conclave, until now, she hadn’t thought they could get much worse. But humans are talented; they have that funny way of always proving your wildest estimations of their shittiness wrong. If they weren’t so bent on cultural genocide, Siofra might almost have been impressed.

“Bastards,” she mutters, thinking of the way they were going on about Andraste and the Maker’s will and all that nonsense back in the war room. No matter how much she protested, it was always the same. And then the Seeker had the audacity to ask why the Dalish simply can’t make room for one more—room for _one fucking more_ —

Fury swells inside her, its heat fierce enough to ward her from the bitterness of the air, though only for a moment. She slips through Haven’s open gates, the golden blanket of leaves beneath her feet growing sparser until she reaches the shore and there’s none left. So she just kicks at the dirt instead, letting out frustrated grunts, then plonks herself down as far from the training grounds as she can be bothered to walk. The whole display probably looks hideously petulant for a thirty-year-old who’s killed enough beasts and more than enough men for it to no longer bother her. But she’s feeling rather childish, so doesn’t much care.

The sound of water lapping against stone and shale is soothing, though it’s punctuated by the shriek of metal clashing against metal—a given out here, trapped between the sparring ring and the smithy. Meditation is too much like something Solas would tell her to do, though, so Siofra decides to add to the symphony, chucking fat, smooth rocks into the belly of the lake. She relishes in their _plop_ as they break the loose skein of the water.

One for her father, who taught her to hunt. One for her mother, who walks at Falon’Din’s side. One for each of her siblings: Piaras, the eldest and eternal thorn in her side; Brónach, her sharp-tongued sister; and Taidgh, the foal, the youngest, the one she dotes on.

_Doted_ on. When would she see him—see any of them—again?

Distantly, she can hear her teeth chattering as she throws stone after stone. The sun’s dipping beyond the granite peaks of the mountains that circle Haven, craggy and sharp as fangs. The light’s starting to fade, the clouds now stained with weak pinks and cerulean blue, and the bite to the air’s starting to gnaw deeper. In the back of her mind, she knows she should head back into the village; they’ll send someone out to get her anyway, since they’re so convinced she needs to be coddled. To them, it’s as though her bones are hollow as a bird’s, as though she’s made of glass. It’s a fool’s errand to even try to convince them otherwise. Pointless, hopeless, miserable.

_Herald!_ they’ll cry. _We need you safe! You’re the chosen of Andraste herself! You must—_

“A copper for your thoughts?”

Arm suspended mid-throw, Siofra shudders out of her reverie, glances towards the voice. It’s low and smooth and familiar: she’s unsure why she doesn’t expect it to be him, but she frowns up towards where Blackwall now stands, a few paces along the shore. Framed by the sunset, he’s soft around the edges, even with that resolute soldier’s stance.

“The going rate’s two sovereigns,” she mutters, sliding her gaze back to the lake and casting the rock from her hand.

“Pricey thoughts,” he replies, after the stone is swallowed with a bubbling thunk. He starts towards her, and it’s then she notices that there’s two wooden mugs in his hands. Lazy wisps of steam drift from them, dancing up into the darkening air. “You’ve been here for a while. Thought you might like one of these, since there’s a chill, Lady Herald—”

_“Don’t_ call me that,” she snaps.

Blackwall jerks to a stop. A little liquid, piping hot, sloshes over the rim of the mugs, and Siofra suddenly feels bad. He’d noticed her? He’d brought her something to drink? For a man she found wandering the woods, there’s something awfully, oddly charming about him. It’s not his fault he always attempts to be so polite, or that he’s unknowingly stumbled into her rage.

“I…” The Warden looks slightly lost, just standing there in his quilted jacket, his cheeks tickled with pink from the cold. “Apologies, my lady. That…makes sense. I didn’t realise—”

“No, it’s—it’s—ugh.” Siofra screws up her face, draws her knees up to her chest, hurries a hand through her pale, ashen curls. “I’m sorry, Blackwall. I’m just sick of this. I mean, look at me!” She gestures wildly to her twitching ears, her catlike eyes, the vallaslin that curls along her skin like vines. “Do I _look_ like the Maker’s vessel to you? I don’t even believe in the fucker! Do you know how many times I’ve told them this? And they want me to—to—”

A half-roar escapes her chest before she realises and she throws herself back against the stony ground, ignoring the jagged rocks and pebbles that dig into her through her thin hunter’s coat.

Blackwall comes to sit beside her, somehow managing not to spill anything else as he descends. “How much did that all cost? I only have…ah, a measly silver.”

“Very funny,” she mumbles. After a beat of silence passes, she adds, “I’m aware I’m acting like a child.”

A warm, rolling laugh answers, a laugh that makes Siofra feel a little less guilty about being so sharp. Blackwall’s breath blooms and clouds in the air, like hers.

“I think you’re within your rights to act like a bairn every now and then,” he says, softly. “This path can’t be an easy one to walk. Your people don’t deserve what you get to begin with, and now you’re…” Blackwall attempts to gesture loosely, before realising he’s still holding the drinks.

“Rotting in alienages? Hunted by shem if we stray even a little too close to your villages? _Slaves?_ Fucking humans!” She finishes for him, the words sharp and acidic on her tongue. Then, she lets out a quiet, “No offence,” because she remembers that he is very human, and he’s actually being very nice.

“I was going to say you’re the Herald,” he admits. “But on second thought…”

Siofra snorts, the sound ungainly and feral. Good thing she’s ungainly and feral, to these people. Just how she likes it. “Herald my ass. _Leave room for the Maker_!” Her attempt at Cassandra’s accent is piss-poor, but mocking the woman is cathartic. “ _Lasa adahl su nar masa_ , Seeker. They left no room for us, any of us. They forced us out. They killed us.”

A certain melancholy haunts Blackwall’s expression as he watches the summer’s last few swallows dart and weave in the sky. “I passed through the Emerald Graves once, you know. All those lives gone, and now look at the hand you’re given. Poor bastards. You should be free, all of you.”

The words take a second to process. He's…agreeing with her? Without any kind of hesitation? His tone's serious, his voice quietening like it does when he stops joking. He jokes a lot, Blackwall. It's one of the first things she’d noticed about him. She’d expected someone more severe. Not someone whose beard supposedly holds unknown, immense powers, and who chuckles so much.

Slowly, Siofra picks herself back up, crossing her legs. Anger still bubbles within her, but she feels slightly calmer now. Her mind’s still raking through what he said, wondering how someone so undeniably shem—that facial hair alone screams _human_ —could be so compassionate. A buoyant feeling rises in her, for the first time in a while. Not hope, not quite.

Perhaps it’s simply relief. There’s someone here who doesn’t run from what she is, or ignore it.

“I…” Words slip out of her reach; she stumbles over her thanks, as graceful as a newborn halla. “That, uh, means a lot. No. More than that. More than you could know.”

“Well then.” Blackwall smiles, and reaches one of the steaming mugs across to her. “I’d meant to simply bring you this, but I’m glad a surly Warden’s counsel could be of service”

Whatever’s in the cask, it smells fantastic: warm, spiced with nutmeg, cinnamon and clove, garnished with tiny segments of orange. Immediately, Siofra’s transported back home, back to weaving along the borders of Antiva, trading ironbark and halla leather for spices and fruits and oils, the likes of which the clan rarely see.

Breathing the scent in, it’s enough to make her heart wrench. She takes a sip, and it tastes as good as it smells. “Where did you get this? It’s delightful.”

“Made it myself.” As he speaks, Blackwall looks quietly proud. “Mulled my own cider; it was apple season last month. The spices I liberated from a secret store. Don’t tell Lady Josephine.”

Siofra grins. Of course he’d made it himself. “On my honour.”

Raising his mug, Blackwall’s smile widens in return. “Of which you have an endless supply, my lady.”

“Enough with that, too!” Siofra groans, but she can’t mask the hint of newfound cheer in her voice. “I make poisons and kill things for a living, Blackwall. I’m hardly anyone’s _lady_.”

“So.” He furrows his brow. Is he genuinely struggling to simply address her by name? Shem etiquette is usually tiresome, but this, she realises, is strangely sweet. “No ‘Herald’.”

She takes a sip of her drink, throwing him a look. Spices sing on her tongue, the steam from the drink kissing against the tip of her pointed, reddening nose. “Creators, no!”

“And no ‘my lady’.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Hm.” Blackwall mirrors her, blowing on the mulled cider to cool it before he takes a swig. “Pointy?”

“Oh, come on. I’m more than these fucking ears! How would you like to be called Beardy?”

“I would like that very much,” the Warden answers in that gruff voice of his, and she knows he means it.

“Very well,” she says, with a grin. “I thank you for your cider and your surprisingly progressive stance on elves, Beardy.”

“You’re most welcome, Arrow.”

“Arrow?” Siofra wraps her fingers around the mug tighter, delighting in how its warmth blankets her chilly hands. She realises Blackwall’s sat close enough, staring off into the lake as he is, that she can feel his warmth, too. He’s very warm. Wonderfully warm. She tries not to think about why she notices this. “How original. You’re as bad as Varric.”

“Maker help me. Well, what would you like me to call you?” Blackwall asks, turning to look at her again with a smile.

“Just Siofra will do,” Siofra murmurs in reply, and she can’t help but break into another smile, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Blackwall would totally be into home-brewing and I won't listen to anyone who says otherwise.
> 
> Lasa adahl su nar masa - Shove a tree up your ass. Elvhen translations from the amazing Project Elvhen.
> 
> Title stolen from Fleet Foxes, who provided the soundtrack to my writing.


End file.
